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William Allen White D. A. Ellsworth 

M. R. McCabe A. R. Taylor 

Walt Mason Vernon Ijoviis Parrington 

l^ottie E. Crary .lohn Madden 

E. Ij. Pinet I). Sophia Doniea 

I'^ugenia C^.hapnian Gillett 

Laura L. Kirk^vof>(l 



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by 
.J. 11. POWERS 



€/'CU<!75'J04 



An Arkm^ull^^^mput 



^'HE compiler wishes to thank all who have given their aid in 
^•^ making this little book what it !s. He has tried properly to 
credit all selections used. Acknowledgment is due to all con- 
tributors for the right to use their verse, much of which has ap- 
peared at some time under copyright. Special thanks are due 
Mr. D. A. Ellsworth, who, because of his interest in the work, was 
an invaluable aid in the accumulation and selection of the ma- 
terial used. THE COMPILER. 
^hCovember, 1910. 



William Alini lUiit^ 



When the wood is brought in an' the chores 're 
all done, at dusk, an' the dyun day 

Kisses the old world a smilin' farewell, ere the 
night has come in to pray. 

The children romp out on the sunflower weeds, 
in Simmons's vacant lot, — 

Maybe they're playin' at hide-an'-go-seek, er pull- 
away jes' Hke as not; 

Fer the games 'at they have- never change very 

much, ner they never git more complex — 

An' I'm glad in my heart 'at the children hold 
to the old-fashioned sayin:' King's Ex. 

Little boy, as you crost the breakin' of life, 

when your voice shall grow rougher an' deep; 
When the cares of the day make you stumble an' 

trip, an' pile on you when you're asleep; 
When you walk in the path where you ortent to 

step, an' feel yourself goun' to fall; 
When no one's around fer to hold to a bit, an' 

yer own httle strength is so small; 
Like a child all alone cryin' out in the night. 

when you've got on yer dark blue specs. 
You'll clasp yer hands then, as you cross fingers 

now, an' pray fer a sweet King's Lx. 

Little girl, though they call you a tom-boy to- 
day, to-morrow they'll let out your dress; 

An' with every flounce an' each ruffle an' braid, a 
joy an' a care comes, I guess. 

Some day in the big unknown future, perhaps 

you'll taste the vile dregs in the glass 

You drank from so wildly an' blindly an' mad, 
your hand could not yield it to pass. 

When you feel, in your bitterness, sorrow an' 

shame, the cruel stones thrown at your sex. 

When men shall be deaf to your piteous cry — 
ask God for a little King's Ex. 



3f f 0U 0^0 Autay 

Roundel 

If you go away, a wild Woe will weep o'er the place 
Where you sit; she will stretch her stark arms out and 

sobbingly pray 
That Death cool the slow-throbbing pain in her empty 

embrace — 

If you go away. 

Perhaps it is better to go ere you tire of the play — 

Ere the hulls of your hopes are torn open to leave bitten 

trace 
Of the worm — when your hopes are first blushing and ere 

they decay. 
I know it is hard to be still and look Death in the face; 
With lips sweet and dewy from Life's morning kisses to 

say: 
I am ready. But God! 't will be harder to keep in the 

race — 

If you go away. 



A Uliymr nf tij? Dr^am-maUcr Mtxxx 

Down near the end of a wandering lane. 

That runs 'round the cares of the day. 
Where Conscience and Memory meet and explain 

Their quaint little quarrels away, 
A misty air-castle sits back in the dusk 
Where brownies and hobgoblins dwell. 

And this is the home 

Of a busy old gnome 
Who is making up dream-things to sell. 

My Dear, 
The daintiest dreams to sell. 

He makes golden dreams out of wicked men's sighs. 

He weaves on the thread of a hope 
The airiest fancy of pretty brown eyes, 

And patterns his work with a trope. 
The breath of a rose and the blush of a wish 
Boiled down to the ghost of a bliss. 

He wraps in a smile 

Every once in a while. 
And calls it the dream of a kiss, 

Dear heart. 
The dream of an unborn kiss. 

Last night when I walked through the portals of sleep 

And came to the vveird little den, 
I looked in the place where the elf-man should keep 

A dream that I buy now and then. 
'Tis only the sweet happy dream of a day — 
Yet one that I wish may come true — 

But I learned from the elf 

That you'd been there yourself. 
And he'd given my dear dream to you, 

Sweetheart, 
He'd given our dream to you. 



Way down crost the medder an' cow lot. 

Thro' paths made by cattle an' sheep. 
Where, cooled in the shade by the tall ellums made, 

The old crick has curled up to sleep ; 
Down where the wind sighun' mingles 

'Ith prattelun' waters at play. 
An' the coo coo coo of the turtle dove, too. 

Sweeps in from the dim far away; 
Down there by the banks of the Wilier — 

In spring where the sweet-willams grow — 
'Twas al this place 'at he, all the time use to be: 

The heme of our little bov Joe, 
My Oh— 

How long ago. 

Nope: none a' you couldn't' a' know'd him. 

Way back there in seventy-four. 
When Idy an' me concluded 'at we 
U'd edjicate Joe, rich or pore. 
I mind how we skimped, scraped and worried. 

An' how our first Christmas was dim, 
An' how mother cried when we had to decide. 

We couldn't send nothin' to him. 
An' nobody else dreams the sorrow, 

'At Idy an' me'd undergo, 
A livin' that way all alone ever' day 

A yearnun an' longin' fer Joe. 
•■ High O 

Long ago. 



So Idy an' me went together, 

To hear little Joe gradgerrate; 
Little Joe did I say? meant big, anyway; 

He spoke on the subject of "Fate." 
An' "my, but the effort was splendid." 

The folks said 'at set by my side, 
Bui I never hyrud a sentence er word — 

An' mother jest broke down an' cried. 
I hadn't the hear^ fer to ask her 

What was the matter you know; 
Fer I felt sh'd a' saia; "Our udby is dead, 

I want hack my own little Joe: 

Our Joe 

Of long ago." 

So foller me down thro' the cow lot — 

Thro' paths worn by cattle an' sheep. 
To where in the shade, by the tall ellums made, 

The old crick is tucked in to sleep; 
Where sighs of the tired breeze whisper 

To quiet the waters at play; 
An' the dreamy coo coo of the turtle dove true. 

Frightens care phantoms away; 
Fer I like to sit here a-thinkin. 

An' astun the waters at flow. 
What's come o' the dear little boy 'at played here 
In the days o' the long ago? 
Our Joe 

High ho. 



O iissun an' hush-a-by, while daddy tings, 

Bylo, pa's littul man, do; 
An' ma reds the table an* clears up the things, 

Bylo, pa's littu! nrian, do; 
I'll make up a song fer you out of my head. 
About all the fairies what's livun er dead; 
An' if you go bylo, I'll bet 'tull come true, 

Byio, pa's littul man, do; 
Two littul boys once went to bed in a loft, 
Bylo, pa's little man, do; 
An' both of 'em heerd purty music as soft. 

As bylo, pa's littul man do; 
So one little shaver jest shut his eyes tight, 
An' played with the fairies the hull live-long night, — ■ 
The other'n who wouldn't heerd booggers go "boof 

Bylo, pa's littul man, do; 

So run littul tyke with the fairies an' play, 

Bylo, pa's httul man, do; 
Wood-tag, er bean-bag, er ol' puil-away, — 

Bylo, pa's littul man, do; 
They'll take you way up to a world above this. 
An' let you slide down on the thread of a kiss. 
With ma at the bottom a wakun* up you — 

Bylo, pa's littul man, do; 



ciiltinr JJimr i\-dhh\\ 

If daddy had plenty of money, my dear. 
My! what a good daddy he'd be. 
He'd buy ev'rything in the world purty near 

To give sister Murry and me. 
He'd git us the crick fer to wade in, 'y jings. 
And down by the ford where it ripples and sings, 
He'd strain out the sunshine and song, and make thing3 
To play with, fer Murry and me. 
— My, what a good daddy he'd be, 

And he'd buy us the trees 

If Murry would tease — 
If daddy had plenty of money. 

If daddy had plenty of money, I bet. 

He'd be the best daddy on earth. 
They wouldn't be anything we couldn't get. 

No matter how much it was worth. 

To play circus under he'd git us the sky, 

To make beads fer Murry, the stars upon high, 

To have pillow fights with, the clouds that blow by. 

No matter how much they was worth — 
He'd be the best daddy on earth. 

Why he'd buy us the moon 

Fer a toy balloon — 
If daddy had plenty of money. 

If daddy hain't got any money, I guess. 

He wouldn't sell Murry and me. 
We're tow-headed skeezickses. that's what he says. 

And scalawags, that's v/hat we be. 
An' n'en when the Kiddles ride by in their lig 
'Ithout any children, ol' daddy feels big. 
And tells ma he won't fer a farm and a pig 

Swap off sister Murry and me 

We're skeesickses, that's what we be. 

But Murry and me 

Are his fortune, says he — 
If daddy hain't got any money. 



Wnt in t\}t Dark 

Dear, I must go. 

The old clock says it: nine — ten — hark! 

Of course the old clock cannot know. 

That every hour-beat is a blow 

Upon my heart — I love you so. 

Some day we'll taunt the old clock though — 

Dear, I must go — out in the dark. 

Out in the dark. 

Where, on the night wind sweet I throw 

A kiss my love guides to its mark ; 

And where each mellow heav'nly spark 

Joins in a love song that the lark 

Translates at morn ; where dreams embark — 

Out in the dark — dear, I must go. 

Dear, I must go. 

For God hath willed it, loved one, hark! 

And He alone can truly know 

How crushed and bruised beneath His blow 

Our hearts are, for we love, love so — 

Some day we'll triumph o'er Death though — 

Dear, I must go — out in the dark. 

Out in the dark. 

Where hov'ring near you I shall throw 

My Irve about you, and you'll mark 

My presence by the glowing spark 

That mem'ry breathes on ; th' meadow lark — 

At dusk will call you to embark — 

Out in the dark. Dear, I must go. 

iG'tttiuii 
Hold to my hand, dear heart, for oh, 
I am so weak, yes, dear, blind — stark: 
And God — I do not want to go 
Out in the dark. 



m. (Umilnr 



ullie 3JauIraiuUin-'i5 ^miij 

(Tune — "Hot Time in the Old Town,") 

I'm a Jayhawker boy from the jayhawker state; 
I wear Jayhawker hats on a Jayhawker pate; 
I ride a Jayhawker horse in a Jayhawker way; 
In the Jayhawker state I am bound for to stay. 

Chorus 
Don't you hear the voices from the west, 
The bells that ring, the song that we love best? 
It tells of hfe in a free and happy plain. 
And of a warm heart at the old home tonight. 

Jayliawker! 
Hear it! hear it! so strong and so clear: 
The bells they ring and the wild prairies sing. 
For the Jayhawker boys and the Jayhawker girls 
All find a warm heart in the old home tonight. 

We a Jayhawker girl with a Jayhawker face; 
She wears Jayhawker flowers with a Jayhawker grace; 
She sings Jayhawker songs with a Jayhawker voice; 
And the Jayhawker state is her own free choice. 

Oh, the Jayhawker skies and the Jayhawker days 
Are the Jayhawker's pride and the Jayhawker's praise ; 
For the Jayhawker knows that the Jayhawker's pains 
Fill the Jayhawker's barn with the Jayhawker's grains. 

So the Jayhawker sows and the Jayhawker reaps. 
And the Jayhawker sings and the Jayhawker sleeps. 
While the Jayhawker's steers and the Jayhawker's shoats 
Grow into Jayhawker's gold, into Jayhawker's notes. 

Neither Jayhawker winds nor Jayhawker drouth 
Stops the Jayhawker's heart nor the Jayhawker's mouth; 
For the Jayhawker's faith and the Jayhawker's song 
Are the Jayhawker's life in his Jayhawker home. 



Love came this way, mankind to serve 
But found our friend in gentle ministry. 
And love, surprised and pleased, departing, 
Said: "I am needed elsewhere, more than 



I have a little tike 

Too small to ride a bike, 

And vet with ears as large 

As saucers. 

Last night he heard me say 
To wife and sister May: 

"When done, hang up the 'phone 

And ring off." 

Great need I had just now. 
In spite of long made vow. 

To scold this little boy of mine 

Severely. 

He bore it for a while, 
I hen with a quiet smile. 

He gravely said, "Oh Pa. 

Do wing off!" 



§>mxav Bot'ml (Drtnte 2fi, IBB5 

This is the Husker's night. 

The ears of gold await his coming. 
The soft moon's pale light 

Creeps up the distant gloaming 
And bids him meet his comrades here. 

Husk and throw 

The ears just so! 
Don't you know 

The way they go? 
Ho! Ho! Ho! 

Husk and throw 
The golden ears just so! 

Welcome to thee, bonny bird! 

Blessings on thy little he'd. 
Thou hast come to nestle in 

A hame that's warm and true. 
Thou'rl a lucky chap, my bonny brid. 

For to come just where thee did. 
Blessings on thy little he'd! 



B. A. EU0m0rtlr 



(3nn m Slinr Httlt iah 

If I could be a boy again. 

On the wings of fancy loose. 
Free from the cares that make us men. 

In my dear old dad's caboose; 
Of all there was I now recall 

That made my boy heart glad, 
I wish that I might go again. 

Over the line with Dad. 

Chums with the brakeman, laugh and joke. 

Ride on the engine a while. 
Washing away the grime and smoke. 

Standing up straight in the aisle; 
Climbing up on the counter high, 

O. what a treat for a lad! 
Coffee, sandwich and custard pie — 

Over the line with Dad. 

Sit way up in the lookout, too. 

With an eye on the jostling cars. 
Climbing there in the height to view. 

The way of the lanterned stars: 
Snuggled close to the truest friend. 

That ever a fellow had, 
Wishing the trip might never end — 

Over the line with Dad. 

I grudge no one the train de luxe. 

With its splendid woods and brass, 
For fond I keep in memory's book, 

A record none may surpass; 
Ah, could I only by magic ruse, 

Take any trip to be had, 
I'd rather ride in that old caboose. 

Over the line with Dad. 

The old caboose has gone long since. 

And its crew has whistled the sky. 
Fancy still with its radiant tints 

Illumines the days gone by; 
And when God's caller comes round for me. 

My heart shall be far from sad. 
If only I know that I'm to go. 

Over the hne with Dad! 



There's a little room at the head of the stairs, 

That has always been known as the Boys' ; 
It would hardly seem right not to call it theirs. 

When you look at the books and the toys. 
The drum brooding there in the silence alone. 

And the fife that shall never more thrill; 
Though many the years that have come and gone. 

Yet we call it the Boys' Room still. 

As a pilgrim come at the close of the day, 

To this ?hrine of the long, long ago; 
And lo, as I kneel in the silence to pray. 

There are whisperings fond that I know. 
My heart gives itself to the visional thrall. 

While the twilight dies out of the west, — 
The drum may not summon, the fife may not call. 

Yet I keep with the phantoms their quest. 

With Robinson Crusoe Im waiting again. 

While the years break as waves on the strand; 
With Sinbad the Sailor I'm watching for them. 

And I hearken with Robin Hood's band. 
The Lorelei sings in the shadowy swirl, 

And Alladdin with magic is fain; 
The Knights of King Arthur their pennants unfurl. 

But the voice of the herald is vain. 

The Pathfinder comes from the trails of the west, 

And the Deerslayer stalks in the dark; 
Now sallies Don Quixote in roisterous quest. 

And here lingers fair Joan of Arc. 
The Minutemen hiding their signafing gun. 

While the Witches ride fast in the air; 
The Crusaders whisper to me, "Will they come?" 

And my answer is always a prayer. 

O, the little room at the head of the stairs. 

It shall always be known a? the Boys' ; 
For it wouldn't seem right not to call it theirs. 

When you look at their books and their toys. 
The drum that is brooding in silence alone. 

And the fife that shall never more thrill, — 
O, many the years that have come and gone. 

But we call it the Bovs' Room still! 



uln i'laif All Niglit 

I like to go to my Aunt Jo's 

The most of any place, 
Cause she don't never twist my nose 

To just rense off my face. 
And she won't scrub my neck uphill. 

Nor squeeze my chin down tight. 
And I just eat until I'm full 

And stay all night. 

First time I went I felt all right. 

Until the sun went down. 
But soon as Aunt Jo lit the light 

I cried to go to town. 
And Aunt Jo made their dog shake hands 

And speak for every bite. 
And I helped Aunt Jo scour the pans 

And staid all night. 

I like to stay there now to scare 

The calves and see them run, 
And shoo the chickens here and there. 

But guineas is mcst fun. 
The old big gocse, he don't hke me. 

And acts like he might bite; 
The turkeys fly up in the tree 

And stay all night. 

There ain't no httle boy there now. 

But there's a boy's room though, 
With picture books and one about 

Old Robinson Crusoe. 
And there's a drum they let me play. 

But I must beat it Hght, 
'Cause it's a boy's who's gone away 

To stay All Night! 



My heart, a pilgrim worn and gray. 
Peti'rns to that far shrine to pray; 
.to know once more, in vision fair. 
The angel of her presence there. 

Sweet mother, how your memory still 
Doth hallow as with prayer the hill; 
The meadows fair, and skies above. 
Whisper me ever of your love! 

The lark's high-winged ecslacy 

Seems sweeter, for your memory; 

The path that threads the orchard glooms 

Your sometime presence still illumes. 

The very flowers in fair excess 
Have something of your tenderness; 
The evening dews, methinks, might be 
The tears you one time shed for me. 

There was a rose that bloomed for you. 
Close by, a shrub you planted, grew; 
And once the trellis knew a vine. 
Your kindly hands were wont to twine. 

Now they are gone, sh.rub, vine and rose, 
As filmed mist and crystaled snows; 
One with thy dust, O treasured store, 
One with the days that come no more. 

And though the years may fleeting fare, 

No oiher memory is there; 

As by the rose you did impart 

The wisdom ol the mother heart! 

What though the rose shall bloom no more. 
Nor vine that one time clusters bore; 
And when the shrub, wild grasses sway. 
Communion with thy soul, I pray. 

The fragrance of the rose far flown. 
The petals to the winds have strown ; 
1 heir hues were blanched by rain and sun. 
All, all. with driven dust, now one! 

Heie, where the rose its fragrance shed, 
Alter long years my steps are led; 
And as m memory still it blows, 
I kiss the dust that was my rose! 



Olaua? Mb Waz Pore 

'Fore we come to Kansas 

We lived back East, 
Pa'd bin to the Army 

An' hedn't th' least 
Thing at all t' show for it; 

So like lots more, 
We jest come to Kansas 

Cause we wuz pore! 

Ma didn't like a-leavin'. 
Her folks fur good. 
But Pa hedn't no love fur 

That nayborhood, — 
Sed they'd showed what they wuz. 
An' made him sore. 
The way they'd treated us, 
'Cause we wuz pore! 

So we come to Kansas, 

Filed on a claim. 
Time our sod corn tassel'd 
Grasshoppers came; 
Didn't leave a nubbin, 
Et stalks and core. 
An we had to take aid, 
'Cause we wuz pore! 

Course ev'rybody mor'gaged, 

An' we did too; 
An' there wuz lots of troubles; 

Some one mebbe 'd sue; 
An' Jimmy died of fever. 

Sick a month or more — 
Jest hed a plain coffin, 

Cause we wuz pore! 



But somehow or other. 

Alius pulled through; 
The dry years, mebbe Pa'd 

Fin' sumthin t' do. 
Or if he got down sick. 

Us boys'd chore; 
Never liked to ask tick, 

'Cause we wuz pore! 

Now them times is over — 

Glad they are too — 
Can't help wonderin' how we 

Ever pulled thro'; 
Death, an' debt, an' drouth, an' 

A whole lot more — 
Guess God help'd us extry, 

'Cause we wuz pore! 

Th' claim belongs to others; 

Pore Ma is asleep 
Way out on the pra'ries — 

No more to weep — 
Kneelm' there beside her, 

I love her more. 
Some way or other, 

'Cause we wuz pore! 

An' someway after all, 

Ma's trials done. 
An lookin', on th' pra'riei 

Fair in the sun — 
I can't keep from bein' 

Glad it is o'er. 
An' we come to Kansas 

'Cause we wuz pore! 



ni Mah (Eru 

Didn't mind the childern's 

Cryin' all day, 
All they're ever good at; 

I've heard Pa say. 
That 'f cryin' killed youngins. 

They'd jest hev ter die. 
But we'd alius be sorry 

When our Ma'd cry! 

Didn't cry so often. 

Only nov^ an' then; 
Mebbe hear that Gran'ma 

Was worse again — 
Uncle John would write 

That Gran'ma might die; 
When we'd git the letter, 

W'y, Ma'd cry. 

Sometimes when we's playin'. 

We'd happen to see 
That Ma was a-cryin'. 

Then, of course, we 
Would all git to cryin', 

An' we'd all try 
T' git her take her han's down- 

We'n Ma'd cry! 

Sometimes after workin' 

Hard all day long. 
Have somethin' or other 

Kind o' go wrong; 
If th' washin' all come down 

'Fore th' things was dry. 
Or her bread run all over, 

Mebbe Ma'd cry! 



If the neighbors told her 

Her boys wuz bad, 
And they had bin a-fightin' — 

Sometimes course we had — 
Or anybody told her 

That George or I 
Had said somethin' wicked, 

Wy. Ma'd cry. 

Night time w'en we's prayin', 

An' we would come 
To "God bless Pa an' Will. 

An' bring 'em safe home!" 
If it was a-Hghtnin', 

And the wind was high. 
After sayin' "Amen," 

W'y. Ma'd cry! 

Th' angel come from Heaven, 

An' took Ma away; 
"There'll be no more tears," I heard 

The preacher say, 
"There'll be no more tears away 

Up in the skies," 
For God will wipe her tears away 

When Ma cries! 

Oh, I guess ev'rybody. 

As well as me, 
Recollec's how sorry 

They'd alius be; 
There isn't nothin', is there? 

Of the days gone by. 
We think of now so often. 

As when Ma'd cry! 

Oh, some way or another. 

It alius seems to me. 
There's nothin' I remember 

Of days that used to be, — 
Nothin' like the mem'ry 

To make me alius try 
To kind o' do better, 

As when Ma'd cry! 



Pillar 3?igl|tfi 

Filler fights is fun, 

I jest tell you! 
There isn't nothin' 

I'd ruther do, 
Nen git a big piller, 

An' hoi' it tight, 
Stan' up on the bed. 

An' nen jest fight! 

Us boys alius hev 

Our piller fights; 
An' bes' time of all 

Is Pa's lodge-nights; 
Whenever he goes, 

We say good-night, 
Nen go up-stairs fur 

A piller fight. 

Sometimes mebbe Ma 

Goes to the stiiirs, ; 

An' hollers up, "Boys, 

You said your pra'rs?" 
George'll hollar "Yes, Ma'am! 

He alius hez — 
Good deal of preacher 

'Bout George, Pa sez. 

Mali say, "Pleasant dreams!" 

An' shut the door; 
If she's hs'enin'. 

Both of us snore — 
Soon's ever she leaves 

We light a light. 
An' pitch right in on 

Our piller fight! 

VV^ play that the bed 

Is Bunker Hill, 
George is 'Mericans 

An' he Stan's still — 
But I'm the Britush, 

So I mus' hit 
Hard's ever I kin 

To make him git! 

We played Bueny 
Visty one night. 
Tell yqu that wuz an 



Awful hare] fight. 
Hsld up our pillers 

Like they's a flag, 
Nen holler'd, "Little 

More grape, Cap'n Bragg!" 

At was the time 'at 

George struck the nail. 
You'd jes' orter seen 

Them feathers sail! 
I was jest covered 

As white as flour, 
Me 'n' him picked 'm off 

Fur most an hour! 

Next day when our Ma 

Seen that there mess. 
She was awful mad. 

You better guess ; 
Room was all muss'd up, 

Filler slips tore. 
Feathers jest flyin' 

All round the floor! 

Ma she told our Pa, 

An' he jest said, 
"You come right out here 

To this here shed!" 
Tell y'u, he whup'd us 

Till we wuz sore. 
Made us both promise 

T' do it no more! 

'At's long time ago. 

An' now lodge nights. 
Or when Pa's away. 

We hev piller fights; 
But in Buney 

Visty, George's bound 
To see there aint nails 

Anywhere 'round ! 

Piller fights is fun, 

I jest tell you. 
There isn't nothin' 

I'd ruther do 
Nen git a big piller 

An' hoi' it tight, 
Stan' up on the bed. 

An' nen jest fight! 



1. MrCdab^ 



The golden-rod's all a-bloom! 

I walked through the fields today 
And along the path, where feathery plume 

Waved graceful tendrils about my way. 
The golden-rod's all a-bloom! 

The golden-rod's all a-bloom! 

By roadside and meadow it blows. 
And under each sunlit spray, 'ere the gloom 

The lightning-bugs gather, and start their glows. 
The golden-rod's all a-bloom. 



Just to He on the grass in the sunshine, 

.Staring lazily into the blue. 
Where the branches o'erhead that entwine, 

Show ghmpses of azure sky, through; 
Just to lie there so drowsy and quiet. 

With the cool grass caressing my face 
While the bees and cicadas play riot 

With the exquisite peace of the place. 



5j0u^utlt?r — April 

Leaden sky, 

With storm a-nigh. 

And bleak North Wind; 
Wild ducks a-wing. 

Cold raindrops sting. 

Dead leaves the gutters hne. 

Blue the sky, 

The storm gone by, 

A,.nd warm South Wind; 
Wild ducks a-wing. 
The robbins sing. 

Ah me! The world is kind! 



Autumn Days 

Autumn days. 

Misty haze. 

Purple sky a-shining; 
Flowers dead. 
Sumach red 

Woods and wayside lining. 

Garnered wheat. 
Bittersweet 

Its coral tendrils showing 
Shocks of corn. 
Frosty morn, 

Fresh'ning winds a-blowing. 

A 3propl)rrti 

The flowers will blossom again in May, 
The trees will leaf in the same old way. 
The rain drops will fall and dimple the dust. 
Smells of Earth, and the woods, will quicken us, just 
As in years gone by! 

The children will hunt for the first wild flowers, 

The plowman will scan the heavens for showers. 

The birds, in a chorus of songsters, a-wing. 

Will waken the world with an anthem, and sing 

That spring is here! 



Brrnnit Sjama Parrtn^tntt 



Strange are the ways of the marsh and strange is the jungle 

way; 
And strange the far path we have trod from out the 

ancient gray. 

Crawled in the shme of the reed-grass the hugest of 

loathsome things — 
Lord of the primal fens — a reptile with slimy wings. 

Found in the marshes a weakling, helpless for evil or 

good — 
A whelp that was suckled and guarded — beast of the 

mammal blood. 

Lusted to feed on the weakhng — wrapped him about 

in his coils; 
Held him thus for a moment in the grip that stifles and 

soils. 

Heard on a sudden a roar — the sound of a dam in cry. 
That seeth her whelp m danger and v/ill not let him die. 

The one she hath licked as he suckled, that cried as she 

gave him birth — 
Hers is the helpless thing, alone of the creatures of earth: 

Fought for him there in the reed-grass, madly with tooth 
and nail; 

Felt a wild rage at the heart lest the thing of slime pre- 
vail. 

Crushed were the reeds and trampled, stained with the 

slime and blood — 
The dam was mangled and torn, but the whelp escaped to 

the wood. 

So was the battle fought in the primal murk and gray; 
Nameless the one and the other, creatures that live for a 
day. 



And the mother Hied in the fighting and the reptile ate of 

her flesh- 
Yet I say in that moment of anguish the race was born 

afresh. 

No more shall the marshes prevail and the law begot of 

slime ; 
The Word of the L.ord is gone out and shapeth the newer 

time. 

Saith, Leave ye the ancient ways! have done with the lust 

of blood! 
Let the mother fend for her offspring, yea, die for the 

suckling's good! 

Unto her have I given the battle — the wounds and the 

bitter strife. 
For the law of the reptile is death but the law of the 

mammal is Hfe. 

Sorrow and wound-ache and death — yea, and joy perhaps 

for a time — 
Thereby she shall follow her lot, and fashion a race sub- 
lime. 

A race that shall smite the reptile and hold his ways in 

wrath ; 
Yea, give of its blood to cleanse the slime he hath left in 

his path. 

^o in the elder time God spake in the jungle tongue; 
And the mother hearkened and heard, and gave her life 
for her young. 

Died that another should live, in the days of the primal 

fen — 
Mother no longer of beasts — her sons are the children of 

men. 



3ln ^mnrk mxh 3Frnrk 

The day is gone from off the fields 

Where much was wrought and much begun 
And in thy presence. Lord, we stand 
To render count of what is done. 

The work was heavy to our hands. 

And scant the harvest that it yields. 

But thou dost know we are not kings 

But workmen toiling in thy fields. 

If we have built no lordly pile. 

Nor fashioned marbles of great worth. 

Yet have we toiled with all our will 
To make a nobler place of earth. 

Our huts are but for homely use 

And builded out of common brick. 

But thou wilt judge us how we loved 

Our weakling brothers, maimed and sick. 

And so in workman smock and frock 

We stand with all our ways confessed; 

Judge thou, if we have labored well. 
Or if we scanted of our best. 



3ittI|o«t tl)r ($uUa 

A master-mason once, of cunning skill 

Beheld a vision as he walked alone; 

And vowed to build a minster on that spot. 

With soaring arches, bravely chiseled stone. 

Boldly he planned it, scanting naught of worth, 
That it should tower goodly in men's eyes, 

Where one might dwell as in a jewel's heart. 

With blazoned windows rich m mellow dyes. 

A glorious temple, rising bold and free. 

With cunning workmanship all overwrought; 
Reared in the faith that only strong men know 
For witness to the joy the years had brought. 

Bravely he labored, and the arches sprang. 
Bearing rich carven pendants as he willed; 

And then it fell — the travail of long years — 
It was too beautiful for man to build. 

From thr waste pile of broken masonry 

Some stones he took, unchiseled, rudely dressed; 
Made shift to build a lowly wayside inn 

For passing cheer unto the foot-worn guest. 

There we foregather for a little time — 

Pilgrims on whom the minster gates are shut — 

And tell old tales of broken hopes — and I 

Tell how the master-mason built this hut. 



Hotttf iE. Olrara 



Wavk 

The tiny seed in the black soil lay; 

Overhead the rain and the sun. 
Unheeded the days pass slowly by 

Yet Gcd counted them one by one. 

Day breaks! And behold the bare, brown field 

In soft green garments clad 
One says, "From the harvest's, yield. 

Shall a nation be housed and fed!" 

The seed, the sun, and the rain and dew — - 
These three — with the Master's aid! 

So in Heaven's own coin, for a faithful deed, 
Siu-^ll the humble doer be paid. 



A Jiiimau'a Uag 

Tiny Mary stood a-tbinkin,' 
Both her bright eyes shinin' bright; 

"Don't you fink 'at I'm a-cryin' 
When I shut my eyes up tight!" 

"Coz I aint! I'm just a-winkin,' 
Winkin* like this, don't you see? 

And o' course it's only think tears 
Keep a-pushin' back at me! " 

"Bill is gone to play at Carter's, 
Took my duck and teddy-bear; 

Said he wanted 'em his own self; 
Goin' to have 'em — he didn't care!" 

"But I'm not cryin,' only winkin,* 
Winkin' like this, don't you see? 

And o' course it's only think tears 
Keep a-pushin' back at me!" 



30l|tt ifflabJi^n 



Soundless measure of some harper. 

Floating down from long ago 

Though the harpstring may be broken, 

Still the kindred touch, we know. 
Aye, 'tis soul, and soul is feeling 

Else the singer could not sing. 
So, I give the ancient glow hfe 

From the Harper's broken string. 

Phnhmmon stands, the sunset weaves 

His golden crown — his ancient crown, 
A crown as old as Cambrian vales. 
Before Caradoc flll'd his sails. 

Before he tighten'd on his greaves. 

To tear Rome's eagles down. 

The mystic bards who guard the grave. 
Where Prince Llewelyn proudly sleeps. 

Are but the soul flames that expire 

To light again, the Druid fire 

And weave the mantle of the brave. 
Where night in darkness creeps. 

Harlech!^ 'Twas a glorious field, 

A nation's star — a song born name. 

Here Cambrian valor held its own, 
^"•^ guarded well a hero throne 

With sword of fire and ringing shield. 

And gave the world its fame. 



Old Snowdon, like a chief at rest. 

Looks outward o'er an angry sea, 

But, as the rnist falls from his face, 
He seems the stronghold of the race. 

And, as the barks glide to the west. 

He weeps their minstrelsy. 

The castl'd hills are ancient shrines, 
Where dark-eyed daughters sang of home 
They kiss'd the sod where fathers bled, 
'Twas sacred soil, for blood was shed- 
Then wore the zone of mystic signs * 
To new lands o'er the foam. 

Land of the harps and tores of gold? 

Land of the battle flags unfurl'd! 

To you belongs the wond'rous strain — 
Of minstrel blood, where long had lain 

The Druid soul, in song foretold. 

To circle all the world. 
The Druid belt 



Alnitjj tl?c (Frail 

Along the trail the evening shades are falling. 

The landscape fades against a star-gemm'd sky. 
And wild prairie voices like brave men calling 

Seem like haunted echoes of a time gone by: 
Night grows beauteous in its summer glory. 

The Irail of Stars shines luminous and cold. 
The Past is gone, but not its story 

Of the rugged trailsmen of the days of old. 

Locked in the canons, the mountains keeping 

The soldier's death call, or his cry of pain 
Are the unmark'd graves of the ones now sleeping 

The stern, grim marchmen of the Cross of Spain. 
They fought for empire in the days now olden 

And sank to rest where wild flowers bloom 
Threw out their lines where the sun was golden 

And passed like shadows to the silent tomb. 

These broken trails are the prairie channels 

Where the waves of passion ran like flame. 
Though silent now, they are glorious annals 

That mark the pathway of a nation's name. 
The trailsman passing to the western ocean 

As strong in purpose as his old Norse sires 
Takes with him valor and that high devotion 

That build an Empire with its altar fires. 



Malgares was a distinguished commander in tKe ser- 
vice cf New Spain. He was a man of vast fortune 
and very generous in his disposition. He possessed a 
finished education, a high sense of honor, and was by na- 
ture and training a gallant and chivalrous soldier. With 
one hundred Spanish dragoons and five hundred mounted 
militia, of the province of Biscay, he invaded Colorado. 
In 1807 he captured Lieutenant Pike and his party, near 
the Peak which nov/ bears his name, and carried them 
prisoners to Santa Fe. 

Malgares was the possessor of those wild and vast 
baronial holds and keeps of the canons and mountains, and 
Colorado was, in truth, as well as in poetic fancy, his 
"Kingdom's Seat." 

Malgares! dusky-browed son of Spain, 

Colorado was once thy Kingdom's Seat; 

Here in the passion play of years, thy feet 
Have tracv-^d the canons, where long had lain 
Those mighty seams of empire, born in pain 

In the far off time, when earth's primal heat 

Surged thro' the mountains volcanic, and beat 
Flidden metal into each throbbmg vein ; 
Thou dids't test thy right to rule by the sword. 

And, under the flag of the Spanish Cress 
The blood of Leon and Castile was pour'd. 

Bloody the sacrifice, and great the loss. 
But greater the wealth in darksome niches stor'd 

Beneath the p;ne, the prism-rock and moss. 

Sleep on, Malgares, of the dusky brow. 

For ether men have enter'd thro' thy gates. 
And the golden glory of morning waits 

To b>.d them welcome! Colorado, now, 

Sends thee hail and farewell! She asks not how 

These new men came, or thro' what stormy straits 
Were blown their sails of passion, love or hates. 

Or adverse winds, that swept each deck and prow 
She only knows they came, as their Norse sires. 

Kingly rovers to conquer and to mold 

New commonwealths, and light new altar fires 

Where massive columns rise, to touch the gold. 
Of sunrise and sunset — cathedral spires 

Cast from the mountains in centuries old. 



'Bma of tl}t iFratl 

1 wind over hills and valleys 

Thro' a golden prairie land, 
Above me the soft wind dallies 

Around me the flowers are fann'd; 
And each vagrant breeze of morning. 

Still kisses the murmuring streams. 
Where violets grow, — adorning 

The warrior's home of dreams. 

I have felt the pulse of battle. 

And the rush of buskin'd feet — 
The charge of fierce wild cattle 

Mad with hunger, thirst and heat; 
I have seen the Indian fighter. 

Encircle my trailsmen bold. 
And the lines of blood grow lighter 

As the fire of guns grew cold. 

The wanderers of the Ages, 

From the olive groves of Spain, 

Are torn from my blood-red pages. 

And sleep with the nameless slain; 

The laughing sons of the waters, 

Fronri the vine-clad hills of France. 

Have kiss'd my fair maiden daughters. 
In the circling Indian dance. 

The blond Teuton, Celt and Saxon, 

With their armies, flags and guns. 
Have my green fields turn flaxen 

With the toil of fair hair'd sons; 
In the path of their plows and reapers 

I'm doom'd to be swept away 
So I dream, with my dreamless sleepers 

Of my olden, golden day. 



On the battlefield of Rosebud, so the Indian legends run, 
Saber-edg'd, and golden-blossom'd turning to the western 

sun. 
Is the heart flower of the soldier, with its crimson drop of 

life 
Marking well the trampled hillside, of that last unequal 

strife. 

To the touch, 'tis cold and clammy, and its curving 
saber leaves 

Drop their points to greet the sunset — while the twi- 
light softly weaves 

Figures, strangely wierd and ghostlike — shadowy shapes, 
and shadowy hands, 

Moving round the rocky ledges, in their close unbroken 
bands. 

In the center, fierce and brilliant, is the fatal drop of red; 
The purest, truest, greatest, of all the blood a hero shed — 
;In that dread hour of anguish, when with kinsmen by his 

side 
He sank beneath the waves of war and like a chieftain 

died. 

Let the hand but crush it rudely, and the drop will leave 

a stain, 
That long days can never wear away of Custer cruelly slain 
On the battlefield of Rosebud in a western sunset land 
Where the heart flower asks no mercy, and defies each 

foeman's hand. 

Brave flower of war and battle, strong emblem of the 
dead; 

Stern sentinel of the bivouac, guard well the soldier's bed; 

Guard, grandly true thr? crimson drop, that marks the hid- 
den span 

Where life must end and death begin, when part the soul 
and man. 

Turn thy sabers to the sunset and let each point sink low, 
While angel troops dip colors to salute the brave Keogh, 
While gold-dyed pennons of the west, the mountain 

shadows part 
And warrior swordsmen greet thee, true flower of Cus- 
ter's heart. 



Hae ye heard the pibroch callin' 
Highland laddies wi' the tartan? 
Do ye ken our comrades falHn' 
And the dool and grief of partin'? 
Harken, to the summons clear. 
Sweet to every Scottish ear, 
Bringin' back the memories dear. 
Of Sterling and Dumbarton, 

See, the ground is red vvi' slaughter; 

A' our front is in disorder; 
Highland bluid must run like water 

To dislodge the Indian warder. 

Sweep the crest of Dargai Hill. 

As we swept the Tyne and Till, 

In the days cf Belted Will, 
Along the t-'nglish Border 

Flcar the wounded piper playin,' 

Stretched upon the hillside gory; 

Rush, brave lads, to bluid and slayin,' 
Kilted men of raid and foray; 
For the pibroch of command 
Calls the Gordon heart and hand, — 
Bayonet and whirlin' brand, 

Scottish men and Scottish glory. 

See our flag is proudly flyin' 

On the hill where killed Gordon 

Stands among his comrades dyin ;' 
Gun in hand, a plaided wonder. 
Strong the strain of Highland bluid 
Strong as Ettrick's ancient mood — 
Border men with border fued. 

Around bold Scott of Harden. 
lEttung 

Sound, Lcchaber! Lucknow stands. 

Grim memorial of the Clan; 

Still our "thin red line" commands — 
Balakava, Inkermann! 



Coronado, a commander in the army of Cortez, in 
1542, led a hody of Spanish, knights from Mexico in 
'search of the "Kingdom of Quivera." Headed by an 
dian guide, he broke the Western World, and traversed 
mountains, streams and prairies, following out the fate- 
ful thread of dream of empire. From the mountain tops 
he scanned the valleys for the river, bordered by trees of 
beautiful foliage, within which hung tiny bells of silver 
and gold, swinging in each passing breeze, filling the land 
with music. It was all a dream. It was full of harsh- 
ness and rigor, marchings and counter-marchings, starvation, 
blood and battle. Yet, this dream of the Spaniard lives 
Tm hits valor and in the glory that fell Hke sunohine from 
his banner. It lives in the warm blood of youth and in 
the wealth of romap.ce that song and story cast around 
the "Kingdom of Quivera." 

There is a land where the heart grows young. 

And the soul is strong and free; 
Where the haunted waves of silence break 

On the shores of an inland sea; 
Where the River of Peace rolls on, and on, 

Touched ever by mystic spells. 
That Hoat like dreams on the water's breast, 
To the music of tinkling bells. 

Musical bells of silver and gold. 

Touched by an angel hand. 
Wooing nymphs of the mountain bold 
To dreamy Quivera Land. 

The spires are shafts volcanic cast; 

And the castles, with walls and keep, 
Are the sighs and throbs of the mountain's heart, 

Where the gnomes of the quarry sleep. 
They stand hke wardens on marches placed. 

And frown as the twilight falls; 
The moonlight shines on each chieftan's casque. 
As he moves through the ancient halls. 
Musical bells of silver and gold. 

Touched by an angel hand. 
Hidden away in ihe foliage old. 
In castled Quivera Land. 



The valley is sweet, where the wild flowers grow. 

And full of the breath of May, 
The mavis sings in the jasmine shade, 

Through the hours of a happy day. 
The dusky m.aid and her hunter bold, 

With is quiver and spear and targe. 
Give a dasn of life to enchanted fields 
That slope to the river's marge. 
Musical bells of silver and gold, 

Touched by an angel hand. 
Swinging and ringing uncontrolled 
In mystic Quivera Land. 

The Spaniard came, in the olden time, 

With his banner and plume and lance. 
And the smiling land, like a virgin mild. 

Shrank back 'neath his haughty glance; 
Her hunters came; the flowers grew red 
With the blood of the stranger foe; 
The River of Peace roared fierce and wild 
In the rush of its crimson flow. 

Musical bells of silver and gold. 

Touched by a foeman's hand. 
Rang wierdly harsh, in days of old. 
In Spanish Ouivera Land. 

It is not all a dream, this land of mine — 
A brave Spaniard's splendid dream? 
It lives in the soul when life is young. 
Like the flow of a hidden stream. 
That kisses the shores of the early years. 

When the blood runs warm and strong. 
And youth and love touch the golden days 
In thr* power of a passion song. 

Musical bells of silver and gold. 
Touched by a lover's hand. 
The beautiful dreams of love unfold 
In lender Quivera Land. 



Walt Mmm 



Hilial ICnir? 4la Hike 

Whal love is, tongues of man can never tell. 

For words have ne'er expressed this thing so sweet. 
So true, so infinite. But yet 'tis meet 

For UP to say what love is like, for well 

We know the likeness of its wondrous spell 

As when the sombre night the sunbeams greet 
And morning lays her largess at Earth's feet, 

Waking to life the mountain and the dell. 

Love's like the sun — that great Hyperion 

That tips the lofty peaks with crests of gold. 
And lights the dewdrop in the Hly's heart, 
Thus love in joy makes Heaven and Earth at one, 
And in its rays our souls in bliss unfold 

Knowing in holy gifts God gives us part. 



A ^uttBft PatltnB 

While all the Western windows flame and glov/. 
And sunset land lies fair before my eyes — 
I raptly gaze through portals of the skies 

Upon the new Jerusalem, and go 

In spirit fancies where the Christ palms grow 
Close by the throne where crystal waters rise. 
I see those dear ones who, with earth drawn sighs, 

Passed over Jordan, Ah! how long ago. 

The dark enfolding shadows, cold and gray. 
Remind me that the night is drawing near 
And by the wayside I must sleep. 
"Our Father" takes the beckoning lights away. 
And all his children rest without a fear. 

Knowing that He each trusting "soul will keep." 



"Farewell," I said, to the friend I loved, and my 
eyes were filled with tears; *'I know you'll come to my 
heart again, in a few brief, hurried years!" Ah, many 
come up the garden path, and knock at my cottage door, 
but the friend I loved when my heart was young, comes 
back to that heart no more, "Farewell!" I cried to the 
gentle bird, whose music had filled the dawn; "you fly 
away, but you'll sing again, and when the winter's snows 
are gone." Oh, the bright birds sway on the apple-boughs 
and sing, as they sang before; but the bird I loved, 
with the golden voice, shall sing to my heart no more! 
"Farewell," I said, to the Thomas Cat, I threw in the 
gurgling creek, all weighted down with a smoothing iron, 
and a hundredweight of brick. "You'll not come back 
<if I know myself, from the silent, sunless shore!" Then 
I journeyed home, and that blamed old cat was there by 
the kitchen door! 



(iil|p lEgpa of IQxmahx 

Sad eyes, that were patient and tender, sad eyes, 
that were steadfast and true, and warm with the un- 
changing splendor of courage no ills could subdue. Eyes 
dark with the dread of the morrow, and woe for the day 
that was gone, the sleepless companions of sorrow, the 
watchers that witnessed the dawn. Eyes tired from the 
clamor and goading, and dim from the stress of the years, 
and hollowed by pain and foreboding, and strained by 
depression of tears. Sad eyes that were wearied and 
blighted, by visions of sieges and wars, now watch o'er a 
country united, from the luminous slopes of the stars. 



There is no tune that grips my heart, and seems 
jto pull me all apart, like this old Serenade; it seems to 
breathe of distant lands, and orange groves and silver 
sands, and troubadour and maid. It's freighted with a 
;gentle woe as old as all the seas that flow, as young as 
yesterday; as changeless as the stars above, as yearning as 
a woman's love for true knight far away. It seenTs a 
prayer, serene and pure; a tale of love that will endure 
vvhen they who loved are dust, when earthly songs are 
heard no more, and bridal wreaths are withered sore, and 
weddmg rings are rust. It's weary with a lover's care ; 
It's wailing with a deep despair, that only lovers learn j 
and yet through all its sadness grope the singing messen- 
gers of hope for joys that will return. O, gentle, soothing 
Serenade! When I am beaten down and frayed, with all 
my hopes in pawn, when I've forgotten how to laugh, I 
wmd up my old phonograph, and turn the music on! 
And then I float away, away, to moonlight castles in 
Cathay, or Araby. or Spain, and underneath the glowing 
skies, I read of love in damsels' eyes, and dream, and 
drearn again. 



S. S^opl^m iflmra 



Snuptattou 

"There carne a lion and a bear 

And took a Iamb out of the flock. 

But David caught him by the mane. 
And smote him, as upon a rock. 

And slew him there. 

When, lionlike, temptation steals 
Witliin the fold of Innocence, 

Oh child, like David, sieze the foe. 
And smite until in impotence 

Of death he reels. 



®0 a iogtootli Hiolft 

Oh dainty Dogtooth Violet, 

Blooming at the Eastertide, 
By the sparkling rivulet. 

And upon the steep hillside. 
Thy floweret's full perfection 

Thy lily bloom of snow. 
Typifies the resurrection. 

That I shall sometime know. 



Sly? Natinr'H OlmttPtttm^nl 

Where idly the mercury lies far below zero. 

Scarce rising or falling a point in a week. 
With all of the courage of some renowned hero. 

Men roam o'er the Klondike their fortune to seek. 
And some, like the noblest knights of all story. 

Ride gallantly forth the defense of the weak. 
But ah, it is sometimes the plaudits of glory. 

The withering laurels of fame that they seek; 
For wealth is but wanton and fame is a phantom. 

Contentment is ever for man the best dower. 
Oh, then let me find in my own native Kansas, 

Contentment and wealth in her bonny sunflower. 



3. £. Pijipt 



Life is a highway, wondrous, fair; 

And we arc but pilgrims journeying there. 

And it's here the rain and there the rain. 

But ever the sun comes out again; 

And it's over the hill and under the hill. 

But ever the way leads onward still; 

And it's here a stone and there a stone. 

And it's many a mile one must go alone; 

And it's here a foe and there a friend. 

And many the turn, and, at last, the end. 

Life is a highway, wondrous, fair; 

And we are but iplgrims journeying there 

The scent of violets in the fragrant wood. 
The sound of little birds that sing 

A wondrous song; the awakening motherhood 
Of cosmic Nature — this is Spring! 



Aittuittti 

A purple haze above the doomed and dying wood, 
A flame of sumac on all the drowsy hills, 
A touch of pathos and of sadness that stills 

The heart with tears and is not understood. 



Uitt f rater Qtiij 

But yesterday in my heart was a garden fair. 

With many roses red ; 
But now there is no garden there, 

And all the roses dead. 
But yesterday in my heart was a nightingale. 

That sang all night long ; 
From out of my heart flown now the nightingale. 

Dumb now the little song. 



A 0ottg for ti|f ^tnut l|cart 

Whate're betide, whate'er befall, in this great world about; 

Come sun, come rain, come joy, come pain — 
Let me not falter, nor, like a coward soul, cry out. 

Let me not make moan, let me not complain. 
Let still my heart be stout! 

Whate'er betide, whate'er befall, let my strong courage 
alter not; 
Whether I lose or whether I win, 'tis the same in the 
end; 
But whatever my fate and whatever my lot. 

Let me go dauntless and fearless to the road's last- 
bend — 
Let still my heart be stout! 



3lu Abantrp 

The trees have hung their tapestries of leaves, 
Ard the primrose sways with every vagrant breeze, 
Bui m.V hearf it knorveth no delight. 

The lark has throbbed with his wild ecstacy. 
And the thrush has filled the woods with melody, 
But mp heart it knoTx>eth no delight. 

Over the plain the flail of silver rain 
Has flashed, and left me to my dreams again,— 
But nivi heart it knotveth no delight. 



fflalt MuBm 



Coup M Ctk? 

What love is. tongues of man can never tell, 

For words have ne'er expressed this thing so sv*reet. 
So true, so infinite. But yet 'tis meet 

For us to say w^hat love is like, for well 

We know the likeness of its wondrous spell 

As when the sombre night the sunbeams greet 
And morning lays her largess at Earth's feet. 

Waking to life the mountain and the dell. 

Love's like the sun — that great Hyperion 

That tips the lofty peaks with crests of gold. 
And lights the dewdrop in the lily's heart. 
Thus love in joy makes Heaven and Earth at one. 
And in its rays our souls in bliss unfold 

Knowing in holy gifts God gives us part. 



While all the Western windows fiame and glow. 
And sunset land lies fair before rny eyes — 
I raptly gaze through portals of the skies 

Upon the nev/ Jerusalem, and go 

In spirit fancies where the Christ palms grow 
Close by the throne where crystal waters rise. 
I see those dear ones who, with earth drav/n sighs. 

Passed over Jordan, Ah! how long ago. 

The dark enfolding shadows, cold and gray. 
Remind me that the night is drawing near 
And by the wayside I must sleep. 
"Our Father" takes the beckoning lights away. 
And all his children rest without a fear. 

Knowing that He each trusting "soul will keep." 



Kansas dhx iHi&Bnutmer 

From glossy hedgerow pipes the timid quail. 
To its sweet mate that 'mid the stubble gleans. 
And from neglected nooks the sunflower leans 

His golden head., and smiles adown the dale; 

O'er vast blue seas the stately cloud ships sail. 
Casting cool shadows o'er the happy scenes. 
When prophet's word nought but some blessing 
means 

As harvest songs are echoed o'er the vale. 

The starry campion blooms in shady woods. 

Tall, gay, frilled cone flowers crest the grassy waves. 
And sleepy catchflies nod to vagrant bees; 
Thus nature, in her bright sun-cultured moods. 
Makes glad the heart of him who wisely saves 
A. moment for her gentle ministries. 



The Sun, while taking a royal jaunt 

In his chariot of finest gold. 
When passing this way, dropped a score or more 

Of his chariot wheels, 'tis told. 

And these golden-spoked and bronze-hubbed 
wheels 
Took root and flourished in Kansas fields, 
A token, rich beyond compare. 

Of our sun-blessed acres and sun-brewed air; 

And the Sunflower now is the sign and seal, 

The living witness of Kansas' weal. 



A snow sprite flitting near my southern window. 
Just paused to tell this welcome news to me: 
How that, in passing yonder dim, grey woodland, 
He heard the spring elves chatting merrily. 
And saying that 'twas useless trying longer 
To hinder crocus or anemone 
From coming forth the great round sun to see. 



ICaura Id. iKtrkuionb 



A iCullaby 

Softly as the moonbeams fall. 
Elves of slumber to thee call. 
Rest, my sweet, the day is done. 
Dreamland has for thee begun. 

Cease that lisping, close thine eye, 
Listen to earth's lullaby. 
Nodding flowers and murmuring trees. 
Send good-night kisses on the breeze. 

Sleep, my sweet, till break of day. 
When slumber-elves will steal away; 
Open then thine eyes of blue. 
To Slumberland bid quick adieu. 



will? MvB lEarapf 

Her lips so tender 

Her eyes so blue 
Her waist so slender 

What could I do? 
A blush inviting 

A smile divine 
The chance not slighting 

I call her mine. 
But Papa hearing. 

No mercy knows; 
With boot-heal steering 

1 he exit shows. 
L'Envoi 
It's a stern joy which Fathers feel, 
In suitors worthy of the heel. 



QIljp iEtprnal ¥m\mm 

What keeps a fellow in a whirl? 
Why it's girl, girl, girl. 
Turn him that way or this. 
He cannot miss a Miss. 

Love's young dream of bliss 
Is a man a cottage and a Miss. 
Then every man real joy should claim 
Whose life is such a miss-less game. 



I find earth not gay, not rosy. 

Heaven not fair, but grim of hue. 
Do I walk? The path is prosy. 

Do I stand and stare? All's blue. 
After Browning. 



J 



Things so rosy. Papa mosey. 
Nothing prosy. Everything frozy. 
Isn't it cosey? Then I mosey. 
Happy, Gee! Lonesome me! 



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